Closure
by chattypandagurl
Summary: [ONE SHOT] As Pyro sits in jail, he finds himself faced with the choice of whether or not to donate a part of his liver to his dying father. What results from the unwanted reunion becomes a life changing surprise to both sides. Post X3


**Summary**: As Pyro sits in jail, he finds himself faced with a choice; whether or not to donate a part of his liver to his dying father. What results from the unwanted reunion becomes a life changing surprise –to both sides. Includes appearances from Bobby and Rogue. Post X3, one shot.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything from _X-Men._

**Note****:** Edited 6/28/09.

* * *

_Click. Click. Click._

Pyro sighed heavily, allowing his imagination to run wild as he tried to ignore the musty smell of his high security cell, the slight dampness of the concrete floor. He hated this place. He hated the iciness, the cold detachment –not that Pyro particularly cared for connections in any shape or form. He didn't need any, not to survive, and besides –

He figured any chance of human contact at this point was pretty much gone.

It was dark in isolation; darker than he cared for. But it was his only constant other than the daily routine, the three meals a day that nearly blinded him when the light flooded into the small cell. Sure, there was a little bit of light from the tiny slit in the door, but he always found himself disoriented, losing track of time.

No clocks, no calendars, no rocks to etch out the number of the days he'd been in captivity, like in the movies. No chance to even entertain the idea of escape, because all he had right now is reality, the dark isolation swallowing him whole and whatever cold comfort he could conjure from his mind.

But what comfort can ghosts hold? Silence leads to thinking, and while he normally enjoys his own thoughts he can only go so long without biting his lip, scratching his uncomfortable shoes across the cold floor and pounding his head against the vaguely damp wall as images of Bobby, Rogue, Professor X, his parents, Magneto, Phoenix and those other pipsqueaks at Xavier's invade his mind.

No telepath is caressing the neurons of his mind, coaxing these hated images to the surface of his eyes, looking blindly into the dark, reminding him of all that he's lost. Now that he cares. Not that he didn't make his own choices.

His fingernails bite against his palms as he resists the urge to thrash uselessly at the walls. Weak, all of them. He's a martyr to the cause, he knows that, but like the smell of scorched earth and the wide-eyed terror in a soldier's eyes as his face dissolved, this brings him no comfort in his uncomfortable, empty cell.

No one to talk to but sullen, silent guards; but he didn't want to talk to them anyway.

_Click. Click. Click._

Pyro had never had a problem with loneliness. It was another constant in his life, a fate he had accepted long ago. It had been nice when he'd had a brief respite from it during his time at Xavier's, but he'd known it wouldn't last.

Routine is stupid. But Pyro became resigned to it after what he believed to be his third day in; he just didn't have the energy to fight anymore. On the first day, he had struggled, yelled, and tricked himself into thinking that there'd been hope to walk in the daylight again. Storm had promised, hadn't she? She'd said she'd try to overturn the verdict. But Pyro didn't have much faith in her word; let's face it, he's probably not her first priority right now, nor does he particularly deserve her goodwill.

But what goaded him the most was the fact that he even flirted with the idea, the unfulfilled possibility of a miracle rescue. He didn't need them; he got himself into this mess, and it certainly wouldn't take the X-Men to get him out. He just won't –period.

Hopelessness made acceptance a lot easier, but it didn't help with the boredom. With nothing to do, no one to talk to, nothing but the four walls suffocating him, Pyro was left with nothing but his thoughts. Normally he liked his thoughts –he thought they were pretty clever– but eventually he grew bored of them as well.

After all, what was the point of thinking and forming opinions if you had no one to share them with?

_This is inhuman_, Pyro decided firmly, before realizing his contradiction. He doesn't think of himself as a human, but as a mutant, and that's not human –exactly. He remembered how his chest had swelled when Magneto had proclaimed them _gods_, the ones who literally have the power to part the clouds, to build or tear apart bridges, and to bring fire to the primitives.

Gods, that's what they are. But sometimes gods fall, and as the indestructibility of youth and power fails, all they're left with the distant memories of their reign, the king, queen and bishop standing above the fray, the air crackling with heat and blood.

He groaned loudly. He was getting philosophical. And there was no one he hated more than weak, ideologists like –

Never mind. Pyro didn't care to touch on that subject for at least a couple of more hours; by then he'll have to find something else to think about other than the millions of things he's already thought of before.

He jumped involuntarily as the steel door creaked open, its deafening screech resembling nails on a chalkboard.

He hated that his curiosity was peaked. There was no lunch, only a pair of handcuffs, a steel bar, and an unsmiling guard.

"Get up," he ordered, tossing the handcuffs Pyro's way. "_Now_!"

In silence, Pyro _clicked _the handcuffs tight, relishing the familiar sound, its memory now renewed afresh. No matter how long he'd been playing with his lighter, he had begun to forget the sharpness and clarity of the sound in the darkness.

He didn't know where the guard was taking him, but quite honestly, he didn't care. Though he had to blink several times for his eyes to adjust to the aggressive light, it was nice to be out of the dark. For a moment, he was able to fool himself into thinking that he was alive.

So it was surprise when they sat him down at a table, cuffing his feet to the floor and locking his hands to the table. Groggily confused, Pyro was curious enough to almost voice an inquiry when the guard wordlessly walked out and was replaced with a woman.

A very familiar woman.

Pyro thought he should be feeling indignation, bitterness, rage –but all he felt was shame. Shame that his own mother was visiting her son in jail.

She looked almost scared, he noted in disgust. _She's afraid of me. Nothing's changed._

"Hello John," Sarah Allerdyce greeted quietly.

For a moment, all either could do was stare at each other, observing how much the other had changed in the years they'd been apart.

"You're old," Pyro noted, his voice hoarse from misuse.

Sarah's lips curved slightly. "So are you."

Pyro made to lean back casually, but the loud chains reminded him of his limitations. Silence fell again as the clumsy clanking echoed in the room, causing Sarah to pale as she truly looked at her son's bonds for the first time.

"My poor baby," she whispered mournfully, reaching to touch his hands.

As if scalded, Pyro retracted his hands as far away as his restraints allowed. Sarah flinched at his reaction, but he felt no sympathy. None at all.

"You don't get to call me that," he hissed, relishing the pain on her face. Before, she had burned him with her hateful words; he was only repaying the favor. "Besides, didn't think you'd want to acknowledge a mutant terrorist as your 'baby.'"

"You just made some mistakes, that's all. You –"

"Don't regret any of it."

Sarah's eyes widened. "What?"

Pyro smiled cruelly. "The only thing I regret is getting caught."

"But –but all those people. All the deaths, the fire. What made you so hateful?"

"Are you kidding me?" Pyro asked softly, gritting his teeth in anger. "You actually have the goddamn _balls _to ask me that?"

"St. John!" Sarah snapped instinctively. "Language!"

"No," he said dangerously, "no, you don't have the right –not anymore. Why you even came here –all the way from _Australia_, for Pete's sake –is beyond me."

Sarah's gaze sharpened and her eyebrows furrowed as she realized something. "Your accent, John –what happened to it?"

He had to smile at that. "Gone. Got rid of it soon as I got into the States; I wanted to minimize my connection to you as much as possible."

She shook her head. "We didn't raise you like this, we –we never _wanted _you to end up here."

Pyro scoffed. "Sure seemed like you did; your tune changed from tolerance to hatred once your own _son _became –"

"That's not fair," Sarah argued. "We –if you'd given us more time to –to adjust to the idea instead of just taking off, we would have –"

"You would have what?" Pyro snapped. "Would've welcomed me back with open arms, tried to forget the fact that I'm a mutant by nature, that you can't change _who I am_? Did you think I'd forget your husband's fist?"

"Why aren't you calling him what he is, John? Your _dad_."

His mouth curled in disgust. "Who?"

To his surprise, Sarah looked almost close to tears. "I'm sorry, Johnny; _we're _sorry. Please don't deny us because we made a mistake."

"A mistake? Sure was one hell of a mistake –look at where I am now. I've made my choices, but _you _forced me here. _You _made me leave, _you _hated me –and what goes around comes around, right? Bet Alcatraz was all over the news; what'd the neighbors say to that? Did they giggle and whisper about your poor parenting skills? Cause, you know, Mum…they're right."

"You can't blame anyone else for what you've done."

"You're a hypocrite."

"And you're alone."

Pyro's head snapped up at her comment, indignation boiling his blood. "Shut up. You don't get to judge me; the X-Men can condemn me, they can hate me –hell, maybe I deserve it. Even if I'd like to bash Bobby's head in right now, I care a hell of a lot more about his opinion of me than yours. Maybe I am alone; but at least I'm not a hypocritical bitch stuck at home with a raving drunk."

For the first time since entering the room, Sarah Allerdyce straightened her back and looked her son straight in the eye, the way she used to when he misbehaved. "Don't speak that way about your father," she ordered angrily. "You might not get a chance to regret it."

Pyro laughed. It felt good to throw his head back and let the laughter claw its way out his throat, even if it was for a cruel purpose. "Regret? Why would I regret telling the truth?"

"Your father has liver cancer."

Pyro's laughter died in his throat, momentarily shocked into silence, but forced his features to twist into a neutral expression. "That's not true. The old man can survive through anything –whether anybody wanted him to or not."

"He's dying, John."

"Yeah? What's that got to do with me?"

Sarah sighed, fiddling absentmindedly with the clasp of her purse. "He needs a liver transplant; just part of a donor's liver 'cause, you know, both livers will regenerate."

He didn't like where this was going. He knew now why his mother had taken the trouble, the embarrassment, to visit him here.

But what Pyro hated the most was the fact that his stomach sank with disappointment at this realization.

"You didn't come here to see me," Pyro said flatly, suddenly too exhausted to be angry. "You came to harvest a liver."

A flicker of what could have been remorse flashed in Sarah's eyes. "I'm sorry, John, I know this is hard –"

"No. You don't know. And stop apologizing when you don't mean it; hey, you never know, you might end up like me, and we wouldn't want that, would we? Take your 'I'm sorry' and manipulative hypocrisy and _fuck off._"

Sarah Allerdyce flinched, but did not reprimand her son this time.

"Please, John," she pleaded, "think about what I said. We weren't always bad parents, were we?"

Pyro was silent.

Almost immediately after Sarah left, the guard reentered, taking Pyro back to the darkness again.

As John returned to the cold wall, its solidity proof that he wasn't merely free falling through nothingness, he couldn't help but replay the past minutes over and over in his head, thinking up newer, nastier insults he could have used. However, no matter how long he tried to divert himself from thinking about it, he still found his mind floating back to it, like a dream.

His father was dying. God, why did he even care? _I don't_, John decided, _I don't care at all. _

He hated that he did. Sure, the guy was a bastard, but he was still his father. His mother was right; there _had _been good times, before the drinking, before the mutation, before the conflict. He just didn't associate those moments to his parents anymore.

Before his thought process could progress any, his cell door screeched open for the second time that day.

"You're popular today," the guard remarked, throwing the handcuffs lazily at him.

Pyro glared at the handcuffs defiantly. "If it's _her _again, you can tell her to forget it."

The guard cocked any eyebrow. It occurred to Pyro that he had never bothered to find out this guy's name. However, he realized that there was no nametag pinned to the guard's chest. Even locked up, they were afraid of him, and that fact gave him a bit of confidence back. They thought big bad Pyro would go after him if he ever escaped from jail. _Please, _Pyro scoffed, _as if I don't have better things to do._

"What's so funny?" Mr. No Name demanded testily. He had taken his baton out and was rapping it slowly against the wall.

Pyro picked up the handcuffs and slid it back to the guard. "I don't want to see her again," he said.

"It's a different woman –a Raven Darkholme."

"Darkholme?" Pyro asked. The name sounded familiar. Well, it's not like he had much to do anyway, and if this'll take his mind off of the news his mother had brought, then great for Raven Darkholme.

However, when he actually sat down at the table –again– and found out who she was, Pyro felt nothing but an intense amount of shame and guilt for not speaking up when he and Magneto had walked away from Mystique's naked form.

"Hello, John," Mystique said, the second person to call him by that name today.

"Your hair's black," he said stupidly.

Mystique frowned, twisting a strand between her fingers with distaste. "Yes, I never thought it was my color. Then again, I never thought blonde was yours either."

Pyro reached up to touch his own hair indignantly, but was once again reminded that his hands were chained to the table. "Did you come here to give me hair coloring advice?" he asked sarcastically, suddenly feeling the need to lash out, to _hurt_. It wasn't fair, it pissed the hell out of him that some people have the audacity to visit an estranged son in jail and demand that he hand over a body part –one that he would like to keep for himself, considering the fact that _he _was the one _imprisoned_.

Besides, it's not like the old man would have given Pyro a liver if he needed it.

Mystique cocked her head slightly, noticing the angry, bitter intensity in Pyro's eyes. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. Government wouldn't let me, something about conspiracies and break outs."

"You don't owe me anything."

"Yes, John, I do." _There she goes, using that _name _again_.

"For what?"

Mystique smiled sadly. "For looking back."

It amazed him that he felt sorrier for Mystique's situation than he did for his father's. Then again, Mystique actually seemed to care for him; maybe, just maybe, she'd come to visit purely for him.

But almost out of nowhere, the sad look in her eyes was replaced with a spark of life, one that she'd always had when she returned from a mission with good news. "Take the chance, John," she said. "Do the surgery, and you may find your way out of this…place, for good."

"What?"

"The surgery, John, the transplant surgery!"

"Stop calling me that," Pyro demanded, growing increasingly uncomfortable with where the conversation was going. Wasn't her visit supposed to help him wallow in denial, forget –at least temporarily– about his ailing father? Wasn't he supposed to look at her and be reminded that maybe other people had worse problems than him? Because, the way Pyro saw it, at least he's not cured. He'd take the death penalty before they took away his power, his fire.

"It's your name, isn't it?"

"Not anymore," Pyro said proudly. "Not since I left."

Mystique studied Pyro for a moment. "Codenames –they aren't our real names, John," she said quietly. "They're masks that can be stripped away at any moment, whether voluntarily or forcibly. They don't make us who we are."

Pyro scoffed. "Since when'd you go all psychoanalytical? What, you going to ask how I 'feel' about being in jail? Pretty damn _great_, that's how I feel. Floating on air."

"I felt the same way too. But it's contradictory. I want –I _fought _for mutant freedom, made it my vendetta to allow myself and others to walk around in the daylight, no masks, no shadows, no fear. But hiding behind personas –though good security wise –is not a smart idea in the long run. It's not healthy. I'm Raven Darkholme, you're St. John Allerdyce." Mystique smirked. "But you're not much of a saint, are you?"

"I think we've already established that."

"But John –" Mystique ignored Pyro's pointed glare. "You're still young. You don't have to waste your life here; I won't allow you to rot, to let your potential be for naught. But if you do this, you can't be Pyro anymore. You must burn him and leave the ashes behind for the government to see."

"Mystique, what the hell are you talking about?" Pyro demanded. And he'd always thought Mystique had been the sensible, blunt one of the odd pair she'd made with Magneto. _He _always liked to be all philosophical and flowery when describing the very simple plan of blowing shit up.

The ex-mutant sighed, equally as frustrated with Pyro's thick head as he was with her riddles. "Do the 'right' thing. Show the government that you're still technically a child, and maybe they'll go easy on you. Easy enough that when I break you out of the hospital, thus saving your fragile, young mind from the negative effects of prison life, and you save Senator Kelly in the process, he will advocate for your full pardon."

"He's dead, Mystique," Pyro said slowly, wondering if memory loss was a side effect of the cure.

Mystique's lips curled as her eyes flashed yellow briefly. "The so-called 'cure' is only temporary; I only just discovered it during your trial, but needed to practice a bit more before fully regaining my strength back. And then I found out about your father's situation –"

"Yeah, that. How did you find out?"

"I have my sources."

Pyro shook his head, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Damn it, don't you know they're watching my every move –_your _every move? Won't they be suspicious if you suddenly disappear? That you came here at all? The cameras probably caught everything you just said." Pyro raised his voice. "And I won't do it. You don't have to lie about the cure just to make me feel better."

"Idiot, you think I didn't make sure before I came? They only have a picture feed; no sound for privacy purposes."

Pyro scoffed. "As if they care about _my _privacy."

"The furball from the Department of Mutant Affairs made sure that you had that right. Good to know the X-Men are useful for something."

"Mystique, stop avoiding the issue. How could you have your powers back?"

She smiled bitterly. "They messed up, didn't make it permanent. I imagine Erik will be discovering he has his powers back soon, if not already."

"Magneto'll be back?" _Maybe I'll have some sort of purpose for my pathetic life now. _

Mystique nodded, frowning. "But John, I'm not helping you get out of jail so you can rejoin the Brotherhood. I'm doing it so you can get your life back."

"You want me to be normal?" Pyro demanded angrily. "You want me to be –be like _them_?"

"_I _became like them," Mystique snapped, "because they viewed me as a threat."

"So you're just going to give up, pretend like you were never a mutant, just throw away our cause and let them kick us around like dogs?"

For the first time, Mystique seemed truly angry. "No," she said dangerously. "Never like dogs. I will be fighting for our cause but –just in a different way. Perhaps diplomacy, working from the inside out, may do more for mutant/human equality than destroying Alcatraz had."

Pyro was silent. "He doesn't deserve it," he muttered. "The liver, I mean. He should suffer and die."

"But _you _shouldn't be here, in this prison," Mystique said almost gently.

Pyro glared at the table, the chains cutting harshly into his wrists. He felt cold, deprived of the fire that was a part of him, trapped without light. She was right; he would suffocate here if he stayed any longer. They'd given him a life sentence but he'll die early. Maybe he'll fight inevitability for a bit, but Pyro wasn't stupid. He knew when to stop fighting, even if he didn't like it.

But wasn't Mystique offering him a way out? It made it easier for him, at least, to make the decision. No more ambivalence about what to do because Pyro could tell himself that he was doing it for him –not his father or mother– but for himself. So he could live. This has nothing to do with whether or not his father lives or dies; he just happened to be lucky that his survival played into Pyro's plans.

Yeah, that was easier. Then he could go on hating his father in peace, knowing that it hadn't been because of his goddamn _feelings _that had made him choose to save Peter Allerdyce.

"Alright," Pyro said. "I'll do it."

"On one condition. If this works out, if I succeed in wooing the government, then you must promise me never to go back to Erik."

"What?" Pyro asked incredulously. "But –what the hell am I supposed to do when I get out?"

"I've already told you; start over. Live your life without having to worry about running –from the X-Men, the police, the government. Yourself."

Pyro groaned. "Why do you start sounding more and more like a shrink with every single word you say?"

"Losing the one thing that made you who you were and being discarded like trash does that to you," Mystique growled. "Promise me."

Pyro looked down at his hands. "Fire's all I've got," he said quietly. "You –you can't just ask me to give that up." Fire had been his friend, his sole companion for the longest time. It was the only thing that loved him unconditionally and remained with him, despite whatever side he was on.

Her expression softened. "I don't want you to stop using your powers; just don't use it for arson, for hurting people."

"There's no point," Pyro argued, shaking his head. "Not if I'm just going to end up on the streets again, homeless and of no use to anyone. At least to Magneto, I can fight. I can be a part of the cause."

"Be a part of _your _cause. C'mon, John, you must be good at something other than manipulating fire and sleeping in class." Pyro glared at her, but Mystique merely chuckled. "Well? What is it?"

Pyro closed his eyes, remembering something he hasn't done in a while, something he used to love but recently rarely found the time for. He had been too busy fighting a war.

"I used to…write stories," he mumbled under his breath, embarrassed at this very personal admittance. Writing was something he did just for himself, a personal outlet that was almost –_almost_– as satisfying as blowing something up. It was how he kept himself from going crazy when the drinking, the fighting, the yelling and the blood had become too much.

Mystique smiled. "The world could always use another nosy journalist on its case; _especially _a mutant who could perhaps persuade others to see his view."

Pyro looked up, truly seeing Mystique for the first time. She was encouraging pacifism. This woman, who used to be so angry and bitter, has moved beyond her violent past and actually seemed at peace with herself, with her place in the world.

He hated that he felt himself longing for such a peace.

Hell, maybe this could work after all.

"I promise," he said simply, causing a genuine smile to emerge on Mystique's face.

As Pyro found himself escorted back to his cold cell for the second time that day, he realized that when he went through with this, he would no longer be the same again. He could not afford to be Pyro anymore; Pyro would have refused to donate the liver out of pure spite, even if it meant that he would be locked in jail forever. Better that Pyro be cold and lonely with his father dead than him alive. Pyro didn't like peace; he wanted destruction and action and burning cities, just to prove that he was more than a failure, a crazy pyromaniac with a dysfunctional family.

More than a coward.

From that day forward, Pyro had to become John.

* * *

"What the hell is he doing here?" John demanded, trying to point accusingly but was prevented by the tight restraints on his arms.

"Security purposes," the guard said gruffly. "Can't have you escaping, can we?"

"Yeah, but does it have to be _him_?" John argued, glaring at that stupid leather outfit as best as he could. How ridiculous he looked in the uniform, the one he'd wanted so badly.

"It's not like I chose to be here," Bobby snapped, crossing his arms defiantly. "But since I'd kicked your ass on Alcatraz, they figured I'd be the best choice."

John sneered, feeling that raging Pyro urge to burn something. Maybe there was more Pyro in John than he'd thought. "Too bad you can't take that confidence and actually call your parents, Bobs."

_Hit the right nerve, _John thought almost gleefully as the smirk slid off Bobby's face.

"Go screw yourself, John." Bobby hissed, motioning for the guards to lead him into the X-Jet.

"Already did," John retorted, smirking. He knew he had the upper hand now; Bobby had always been easy to provoke. However, though he would never admit it, it bothered him that Bobby had called him "John" instead of Pyro. It bothered him more than anything.

The guards left them alone and Ms. Munroe took the plane off the ground. John was actually surprised –and a little amused– that the government had been able to recruit so many X-Men for the sole purpose of babysitting him. _Bet Bobby loved that, _he thought, smiling a little.

"What's so funny?" Bobby demanded, glaring at John in suspicion.

John opened his mouth but Logan extended his claws, cutting off John's retort. "Listen, bub, don't even think about trying to escape; you'll just make things worse for yourself."

He eyed the dangerous claws that could slice him in half in an instant but merely shrugged. What did he care? There was only a slight chance that Mystique's plan would work anyway, so why did it matter if Wolverine killed him quickly now or the cell slowly?

In the corner of his eye, he saw both Bobby and Rogue wearing disturbed expressions on their faces. _What's their problem? _John scoffed. Were they bothered that he seemed to care so little for his own life? Well, it sure as hell bothered John that Rogue had gotten the cure, that she'd sold out to the humans. What was she doing here anyway? It's not like she could be of any help anymore. But then he remembered –the cure was only temporary…which meant that Rogue's skin was as deadly as ever. _Wonder how Bobby's dealing with that. _

_Tin-Man must be watching the mansion, _John thought dreamily, starting to feel slightly groggy. Must be the sedative they had pumped into him earlier. A sudden jerk in the altitude woke him up immediately, but the heaviness on his eyes was hard to fight. He was _not _going to fall asleep, not here with all the X-Men staring at him. It was starting to make him feel self-conscious, but try as he might, John couldn't hold out keeping his eyes open longer than a half hour or so.

Somewhere in his half-dreaming state, he heard distant talk between the X-Men, wondering why they had to ship John to Australia instead of his father coming to the States, asking why they had to go to Australia in the first place, surprise to discover John's original homeland, musing over why he lacked an accent and why he had never told anyone.

"He's always been really private," Bobby said. "And I'd just assumed he was from here, without the accent…I hadn't wanted to ask what he obviously didn't want to answer."

"You know, you don't have to be here, Marie," Wolverine asked, almost gently. It was hard to imagine Wolverine ever being gentle with anybody, though it was known that he had a soft spot for Rogue.

"I know," Rogue said, voice cracking a bit. "But I want to. Y'all saw him at Alcatraz, but –but I didn't. I want to know _why, _how. You know he'd blown up a cure clinic, knowing I could've been in there? And losing to Bobby at Alcatraz –"

"I didn't lose. He cheated," John protested irritably, forcing one eye to open for a few seconds before losing the battle. He imagined somebody probably said something sarcastic to him, but he wouldn't know, because sleep and nightmares claimed him.

_Fire. There was fire in their veins as adrenaline pumped through both, alcohol in the other. John thought he heard Mum crying someplace in the corner of the kitchen, a red handprint featured prominently on her face. _

_So much for John's heroics. This wasn't right; it wasn't turning out the way he'd thought it would, the way he'd read it would. Heroes were supposed to sacrifice themselves for the greater good, but they always won in the end. The bad guys were redeemed or destroyed, nullified or made harmless. _

_But comic book heroes had never faced the power of the drink, a more powerful and driving force than desire. Because the drink never made exceptions, did not respect heroics and self sacrifice because it saw them the way John came to see them –as useless antics that would only get you killed. In the long run, they meant nothing. _

_He was bleeding, bleeding on the floor and his mother wasn't doing anything about it except crying and hiding in the corner like a coward. John was no coward, but he was scared. He was scared out of his mind that he was going to die today, and for what? For nothing. He didn't save the day, much less a person. Even after he was six feet under, Mum would still stay with him, still get hit, still yell, and there would still be blood stains on the floor, old and fresh. _

_Maybe, just maybe, if he laid completely still, Dad would take him for dead and forget him. There was no other time he could remember when he'd wanted so desperately to disappear, to be a physical representation of what he truly was –nothing. _

_John groaned and spat out blood as the next kick connected to his stomach. Curling up into a ball, he thought of all the things he still wanted to do but couldn't. All of his regrets, all of his failures. He can never save his mother, but now he can't save himself. He had been selfless, and look where it got him. He swore to himself that if he ever got out of this, he would not sacrifice himself for anyone else anymore. Not if this was his reward. _

_But if he died today, he didn't want to die looking down, at the ground. He would look up proudly at the drunken, ruddy face that had been the beginning and end for him. But as he began his defiance, he noticed the spark of fire of a candlelight, which had somehow stayed upright through the whole ordeal. _

_He felt drawn to it, this symbol of hope. Not quite sure what he was doing, John reached out to touch it –and did. _

_Mum screamed as fire danced around her son's fingers, circling around him until it formed a flaming cocoon, protecting him from the drink. His father staggered backwards, afraid of the hot fire, the protective, nurturing fire that now surrounding the boy he had been beating moments before. _

_But it had only lasted for a few precious moments before John's hold on the comforting fire diminished, and he was left exposed again. Hope had been taken from him, his guard let down, so that when the next blow came, he did something he'd resisted the entire time._

_He screamed. _

"Pyro! _Pyro! _John!"

His eyes snapped open, beads of sweat running down his face. He noticed everyone looking at him in concern, Bobby grasping his shoulders, something akin to concern on his face –but he doubted it. He'd lost the right to be an object of worry a long time ago.

John's face flushed as shame when he realized just how vulnerable he must have seemed just now. Poor John, with his horrible past and scary nightmares. How weak he must have looked.

Angrily, he shook Bobby's hands off his shoulder, returning to stubborn, sulky silence when Rogue asked him if he was okay. _Obviously not_, John thought nastily. Ironically, that nightmare had shaken the narcotics off, and he was forced to remain awake, grumpy and brooding for the remainder of the trip.

Stupid Bobby and Rogue kept on looking at him, opening their mouths slightly as if about to say something before clamming up. Half the time they looked angry, the other hurt. It was really started to get on John's nerves and, try as he might to control his temper, he snapped.

"Just fucking say it!" he yelled finally, causing both to jump. Wolverine, however, did not, but he also didn't unsheathe his claws like John had expected him to.

"John…" Rogue said quietly.

"Stop _looking _at me like that!" John demanded, his fingers itching for his lighter –_which I'll never see again, _he realized. He'd left it in Magneto's hands after he had received the flamethrowers, a symbol of leaving his past behind. John was an idiot.

"Feeling uncomfortable?" Bobby asked coldly. "Guilt, maybe?"

_You wish_, John thought spitefully. He still resented Bobby for beating him at Alcatraz; how the hell was he supposed to defend against Iceballs' inconveniently timed evolution of his powers?

Then, with that irritating ability of being able to sense what Bobby was feeling, John realized what both of them really wanted to ask.

"I don't regret leaving. Didn't then, don't now."

There was a flash of hurt in Rogue's eyes, but Bobby remained impassive, a cold block of ice. They must have been satisfied with his answer, John decided, because they didn't say another word to him the remainder of the flight.

Actually, nobody said anything to him except "Move it, Allerdyce," but John was fine with that.

His room was definitely better than the cell; at least he could see sunlight streaming through the windows. John squinted suspiciously at his hospital bed, as if expecting it to rear up and attack him where he stood.

He looked down at his hands and smiled. They were free of restraints, he could see the beautiful Australian sky, and there was light where there had been darkness.

"Not bad," he muttered to himself. "Not bad at all."

* * *

_This sucks._

John was currently lying in a hospital bed with tubes sticking out of him and under narcotics again. The surgery had gone smoothly, according to Storm, who had taken the place of the terrified doctor who hadn't wanted to go anywhere near a fire creating patient. _He should get his damn facts straight, _John had complained.

He had hoped that he would have been able to get the chance to move around more but he was prepped and wheeled into surgery almost immediately after he had arrived. _Probably don't want me here any longer than I have to be, _he concluded. But what he was most anxious about was how exactly Mystique was going to pull this off. How the hell was he supposed to know if "Senator Kelly" was in the hospital or not?

Well, she'd better hurry up. He had been surprised that the government had allowed him to stay in Australia to recover as long as they had, thinking that they wouldn't care about his well being and throw him back in jail as soon as they could. Perhaps that had to do with the X-Men, but he'd rather think that it wasn't, because that would mean he owed them. And owing Bobby and Rogue for _anything _was not an option.

Those two haven't spoken to him since they arrived, though Bobby would stand guard outside of his door for a while each day, and now in the dead of night, when only a few nurses sat at the front desk. John probably would have snapped from boredom by now, but he preferred to allow the sedatives to do their work, relishing the numbness. Feeling was a horrible thing, he decided, full of weaknesses and complications.

His eyes were closed, but his ears were not. He heard the door click open loudly, but decided to ignore whoever it was –probably Bobby making sure he wasn't trying to escape out the window or something.

It surprised him when the person scooted a chair near his bed. John sensed tenseness coming from that side of him, a familiar but unwelcome presence. He risked opening his eye a crack, and was shocked to see his mother there. He'd thought she'd be done speaking with him once he'd handed over the liver, which would help the one his father had destroyed with his continuous drinking.

"My baby."

He pretended he hadn't heard it.

"You had always been so brave," Sarah said, taking John's hand and rubbing it gently. He suddenly felt violated; he wanted to pull away his hand, take his lighter and throw fireballs in her face, demanding where that love had been when he'd needed it, when _they'd _needed it.

Maybe she thought he was brave, but John knew she wasn't; all this time, all the pain, all the blood, and she'd never left her husband, even when John had left them both.

_Screw this, _he thought bitterly, grinding his teeth. This whole damn experience had caused unwanted memories to be drudged up again; John had been perfectly happy pretending none of this had happened, that he'd never lived here, that he had not come from _them. _

Why was he putting up with this? Why couldn't he just wake up, yell at her, make her cry and run from the room? If he was honest with himself –which he wasn't– then he would know that there was a part of him that didn't want her to go.

"They say you did –horrible things. But doing this surgery was a selfless thing to do; I'm proud of you, and I love you, Johnny." Before he knew what was happening, his mother had kissed him on the forehead, like she used to when he was little. He resisted himself until he heard the door close behind her, then snapped his eyes open, sat up in bed, and wiped the kiss away vigorously.

He didn't deserve that kiss. He wasn't selfless, and he sure as hell wasn't doing this surgery for _her_. It was so he could be free, provided that Mystique's plan works.

"You were awake the whole time, weren't you?"

John turned around to see Bobby standing in the doorway, arms crossed. He wasn't wearing that stupid leather uniform anymore, and for that John was glad. It had been starting to become an eyesore.

"Didn't the Professor teach you not to eavesdrop?" John retorted acidly, sitting up straight. "Besides, how would you know that Iceballs?"

"I can tell when you're faking it," Bobby answered calmly. "Like in English class, you always pretend to be asleep but you're really listening to everything that's said. Well, listen_ed_, I guess."

John fell into sulky silence, irritated that Bobby was right. And he thought he had been sneaky about it too.

"Listen, we've been trying to get you out of isolation," Bobby began, sounding uncomfortable, "but no luck so far. We still don't have enough influence to change your sentence."

John scoffed. "Just goes to show the truth right? They _still _don't trust you, even after you saved the whole fucking world from going kaboom. They never will, you guys just don't see that."

Bobby frowned, then sighed, looking exhausted as he ran a hand through his hair. "Why are you always so damn frustrating?" he asked. "Why can't you just –never mind."

"No, Bobby, finish the sentence," John said nastily. "Why can't I what? Why can't I run around in leather brandishing my goodness to people who don't give two shits about me, about mutants? We're like trash to them; they use us for their own purposes, then throw us away like we're nothing, like we've never meant anything to them."

The other boy was silent for a moment, looking at John with a strange, curious look. He laughed bitterly. "It's funny," Bobby said. "That's kinda like what you did with us."

"You don't know what you're talking about," John snapped angrily. "I'm not –I'm not like _them_. Or any of those traitors."

"Yeah, John, you are," Bobby said, his voice raising. "You, Magneto, and your little army are a hell of a lot more like 'them' then you think. I don't know about you, but I felt like crap when you left; you betrayed us, but I see now that you don't give a damn. You know how long me and Rogue held out, hoping you'd come back? We kept all your stuff in our room for _months _until we finally realized how stupid we were being. And then seeing you at the clinic, and Alcatraz…" He shook his head. "You'd really wanted to hurt us even more than you already had, and that made me wonder if we had really ever been friends at all. Did you ever even _care _or like us at a point?"

"You don't know me," John growled. "You don't get to judge me."

Something in Bobby's eyes flashed, making John think for a moment that there was fire in those cold eyes. "So what's the plan?" he asked icily. "Is Magneto going to rip the hospital in half –with all the patients inside– in order to save his pathetic lackey? Or will he leave you in that jail to rot when he realizes that you saved one of 'them' –a lowly human?"

John felt himself shaking with anger, that familiar urge of wanting to punch Bobby, to _kill him _coming back with every single provoking word.

Bobby didn't fail to notice the rage in John's eyes, but merely smirked triumphantly. "What, going for a rematch now, Johnny?" he taunted. "Ready to lose again?"

It took all of John's self restraint to keep from yanking himself out of bed and knocking Bobby's lights out. _Remember, Mystique's getting me out soon, don't cause any trouble, _he reminded himself, but found himself losing the fight.

John had never been good at holding his temper.

It probably hadn't been a good idea to wrench the wires out of his arm, but John was blind to everything except his current goal –wiping that stupid smirk off Bobby's face. He must have surprised the popsicle with his unexpected –and probably recklessly stupid– move, because Bobby offered no resistance as John's fist swung hard at his right cheek. Bobby fell the ground, but was quick to send a spray of ice towards John.

However, this only irritated John more as an animalistic need to _hurt _someone, to make someone else experience the pain he's had to endure his whole life, and took it out on Bobby, kicking him in the side hard. Bobby groaned with pain, but managed to grab John's foot and send him crashing to the ground.

As the two boys panted on the floor, glaring at each other in a standstill, John's mind caught up with him. He looked at Bobby, at what he'd done, how he'd kicked him while he had been on the ground and was horrified with himself.

"John?" Bobby asked, slight concern in his voice as he regarded the strange look on his ex-friend's face.

"I'm –I'm turning into _him_," John whispered to himself, forgetting Bobby was there.

"Turning into who?"

John, shaking his head in denial, sprang up to his feet and started for the door. Damn his mother and his father's stupid liver, the X-Men who'd taken him here. He wasn't sure where the logic was in this, but he knew he had to set things straight, tell Peter Allerdyce to his face that even if he's a despicable mutant terrorist, at least he's not like _him_. John needed reassurance from the man himself that he would never become him –he couldn't, not if he was going to hold on to at least a little bit of dignity.

"Hey, where do you think you're going?" Bobby demanded, picking himself up off the ground quickly to block John's way. "If you think I'm just going to let you walk out of here –"

"I need to see someone," John said stubbornly, trying to shove a steadfast Bobby out of the way. It was surprisingly easy to knock Bobby off his feet again and run down to his father's room –the one he'd heard Storm telling Bobby when they'd thought he'd been asleep.

Skidding to a stop, he yanked open the door to room 420 with vicious strength, shutting it behind him. The slam made his father jump and scan the room anxiously, his eyes finally landing on his son.

John wasted no time in striding over, adrenaline coursing through his veins, and letting the words burst from him. He had to clarify, if just to assure himself that he was right.

"I'm not like you," John snarled at his startled father. He knew the lack of logic, the complete idiocy of doing this _now _entailed. But he needed to do this nevertheless, whether or not he walked free or returned to his cold cell.

Peter Allerdyce looked small and weak lying in his hospital bed, oxygen under his nose and his eyes red. Worse, he looked vulnerable, something John had never associated with him. Right now, he was something John could easily crush in his palm; one tiny stream of fire to the face would cause the oxygen to explode, leaving him dead or physically scarred forever.

Either way, he'd be in a great deal of pain, a thought that greatly appealed to John.

"John!"

Turning, John shot a warning glare at Bobby. "Stay out of this," he hissed.

"No." Bobby shook his head, stepping into the room cautiously. "You're not going to hurt anybody else today."

"Aw, did I give poor Bobby a bruise? Hurt your pride, did I?"

"Damn it, John, _you're _the one with the inflated –" Bobby yelled before stopping himself mid-sentence. "Get your ass over here _now_, before I make you." He froze his own hands to emphasize his point.

For a brief moment they were at an impasse. John wasn't going to let Bobby bully him into doing what he wanted, and Bobby would not allow John to screw himself over any more than he already had.

"I'm just going to talk to him," John explained stubbornly. "I promise."

He realized the moment he said it how useless his promise was. He didn't have Bobby's trust –not anymore. Not since Alkali Lake and Alcatraz.

Bobby looked at John, eyes narrowed as he tried to access the truthfulness of his old friend's words. He wanted to believe John, to think he wasn't a blood thirsty terrorist, but the eagerness in Pyro's eyes at the clinic and Alcatraz had proved his hope wrong.

Right?

"I'll be watching; don't try anything," Bobby sighed finally, turning back to lean against the doorway.

John was shocked that Bobby had actually trusted him –for no reason whatsoever. But he didn't say anything about it, just nodded and turned back to his father, who he noticed had been watching the entire time.

It's funny; there had been a lot of things John had wanted to say to the bastard in front of him, many imagined conversations when he'd tell the alcoholic _exactly _what he thought of him. But now, when he actually had the opportunity to say it, no words came to mind. For a moment he cast his mind around, trying to grab hold of the words. Finally, he settled on sarcasm.

"Still an alcoholic?"

"Still a mutant?" Peter Allerdyce shot back automatically. If John had been listening carefully, he would have heard the lack of conviction and venom in the words.

But he wasn't, too busy being consumed as old rage and bitterness flared up even more. He felt so stupid, so _small _around him –small, insignificant, and inhuman.

"Yeah, you would have liked it if they'd 'cured' me, wouldn't you, old man?" John said quietly, trying his best to stop Bobby from hearing their conversation.

However, Peter didn't have any inhibitions as to Bobby hearing, his voice remaining at a level audible to the mutant standing in his doorway. "Considering all you've done, yeah, probably."

On some level John appreciated that he wasn't being lied to, suckered up to like his mother had, because it was an indication that this, at least, was the same. His father was still the same, brutally honest drunk.

That fact comforted him, now that John didn't fear for his life anymore. He was greater than his father –more powerful, not helpless, not anymore.

"All I've done?" John spat. "Take a look in the mirror. You disgust me; I should have just let you die slowly of that cancer, _human_."

Peter's shoulders sagged, looking even more exhausted at John's spiteful words. However, his eyes were sharp as they regarded John with curiosity. "Then why did you do it?"

John shrugged.

"I hadn't wanted her to ask you," Peter said. "But your mother defied me and went to get you anyway; didn't think it'd actually work, but, well –"

"Too bad she couldn't have grown a spine a few years earlier," John said coldly.

"Hey!" Peter snapped, causing John to flinch instinctively. John suddenly felt ashamed of himself; he hadn't thought his father still had that effect on him. "She hasn't done anything to you; it's me you should have a problem with, not her."

"Yeah, she did. By not doing anything, by staying with _you_, she –"

"No one regrets what had happened more than me," Peter said firmly, sitting up straighter.

John almost laughed. "Feel better? Now that you've 'apologized' is your conscience clear?"

Peter sighed, frustrated. "But that's why _you're _here isn't it? You want to yell at me, hate me, make sure I know what a bastard I am. And I do regret the –the drinking. I had hurt more than myself, and for that I'm sorry. But I saw the news, all the public arsons, your face next to that Magneto. You looked pretty damn pleased with yourself and your new hair." He gazed at the blonde locks distastefully. "So, do you care about the harm _you've _caused? As for whether or not my conscience is clear…I don't know, son, you tell me."

His use of "son" did not go unnoticed by either of the Allerdyces.

"Don't call me that," John said finally, walking away from him without a word, feeling strangely unsatisfied with the whole encounter. He had come into the room feeling angry, resentful, bitter –but came out feeling empty. He had meant to chew Peter Allerdyce out, but had ended up being scolded like a little boy.

_Damn him_.

"What are you looking at?" John snapped at Bobby, heading back to his room as quickly as he could, Bobby following silently behind him.

Sulkily, furious with himself, John collapsed onto the visitor's chair, exhausted from the past half-hour. The painful lump in his throat bothered him, but he steadfastly ignored it, instead choosing to focus his attention on the mindless task of counting the number of holes in a single tile of the ceiling. When he finally looked at the door, John was irritated to find Bobby still standing there, arms crossed and looking at John with a curious, almost calculating expression on his face.

For a moment, John felt like he was the new kid all over again, glaring at all of those kids at Xavier's –especially his roommate– daring them to ask questions, where he came from, why he had come with only a few possessions. He had thought Bobby would be one of those nosy kids, getting into everyone else's business, but had been relieved when all he'd done was smile and introduce himself, never once pushing John into answering questions he didn't want to answer.

So he was glad that this trait of Bobby's, at least, had not changed in the time they had not seen each other. He didn't smile, but Bobby did turn around, still wearing that confused look in his eyes, and shut the door behind him, giving John the privacy of indulging in his thoughts.

But he'd already thought –a bit too much, he decided– in the cell, and didn't particularly want any now. He wanted to do something, to get out of this room, which, though more humane, was starting to become as suffocating as his cell.

_His _cell. Prison really screwed him up, hadn't it?

Maybe, on some level, he felt like he'd deserved it, even if he didn't want it.

Gritting his teeth, John allowed himself a groan of frustration. _This _is why he hadn't wanted to do this, but he had, it's done, it's over with, and now –

Screams. A woman's shrill, frantic screaming right outside John's door. He distantly heard Bobby telling the woman to calm down before finding himself facing both Bobby and a stricken blonde nurse.

"John, come on!" he yelled, apparently forgetting that he was supposed to guard his old friend. "Your dad's room's on fire."

His muscles tensed instinctively as he felt for the fire, sensing it the moment he tried. How could he not have noticed this? Before really thinking about what he was doing, John had leaped out of bed and followed Bobby out of the room, where several frantic nurses were desperately trying to put it out with fire extinguishers –to no avail.

Watching the blazing fire that seemed to consume the small hospital room, John felt almost lightheaded at the surrealism of the situation. This is what he'd wanted, wasn't it? To watch the person who'd hurt him the most, who'd abandoned him, burn with great satisfaction?

He felt no satisfaction now.

"_John!_"

Looking up, he saw Bobby's frosted hands extended towards the fire, attempting to placate the hungry flames. But neither ice nor the extinguishers were working, and it only continued to grow, fed by a very angry something. The fire was alive, and it was ravenous.

"Damn it, John, do something!" Bobby bellowed, trying to get through to the firestarter, who was looking at the fire in a trance. Suddenly, a horrific idea popped into his mind –could Pyro be feeding the fire so it couldn't be killed?

"This is all on you," he snapped, lowering the temperature of the room as best as he could. "They die, you die –the government will make sure of that."

John turned to look at him. "Does it look like I care?" he said harshly. _Better death than the cure, or that cell. _

But he didn't want blood; not here, not now. His only hesitation was the implications _after _he'd saved the day, tried to play the hero again. Every time he'd tried to do the right thing, it always ended up biting him in the ass; he'd learned not to try, in order to avoid the consequences. When he made the fire cease, then it would prove that their lives mattered to him –because saving them from this fire was not part of the deal, it would not factor into his plans to save his own skin.

Inwardly, he cursed Mystique for being so late on her part of the plan, drawing the opportunity so _this _could happen.

"Screw this," John muttered, tearing his eyes away from an enraged Bobby to the fire. Closing his eyes, he focused on stifling the fire. Strangely enough, instead of experiencing the same fury, bitterness, and vindication he'd always felt when manipulating the flames, John felt a sense of peace and calm. Within seconds, the fire was gone, and John felt free.

"Good job," Bobby said to him, a flash of hope in his eyes. But John merely nodded mutely and walked back to his room while the nurses rushed inside to check on the patients.

"That was a brave thing you did, young man, and I truly appreciate it."

"What?" John asked, startled to see Senator Kelly standing in his room. It was six in the morning, just five hours after the fire incident, and he hadn't gotten any sleep at all. _This has to be a hallucination_, he decided, _Mystique would've told me if – _

Realizing what had happened, John glared at the "Senator" as he closed the door behind him.

"You could have told me," John hissed, making sure Bobby couldn't eavesdrop. "I wouldn't have hesitated if you did."

If there was one thing he hated, it was being tricked.

The senator's eyes flashed yellow as he smiled. "I'm sorry, but this seemed more of a probable solution to your problem. So, Senator Kelly checks into the hospital after he had been bitten by an unidentified animal, wanders the hall at night due to restlessness, and hears screams. He heads in, sees that a room is on fire and yells for help before recklessly rushing in to rescue the occupants of the room. When the fire grows too big, all three are trapped."

"Wait," John interrupted. "Three?"

"Myself and your parents."

John ran a frustrated hand through his hair. His mother had been there too. "Again, why couldn't you have told me this before?"

Mystique shrugged. "Didn't get the opportunity."

"But what if I hadn't saved you?" John shot back. "What if I had decided that I wanted to let that fire keep on burning? You would have been killed."

"That I would." Mystique nodded. "But I trusted you."

"I didn't know you were in there," John snapped angrily, feeling irrationally irritated with the whole thing; it had been more emotionally involved than he liked. "I could have let –let _them _burn, like they deserved."

"You didn't. That's all that matters," Mystique said coolly, annoyed with John's stubbornness. "Let it go. You're not as tough as you'd like to think." John opened his mouth to argue this point, but Mystique shushed him. "Goodbye, Mr. Allerdyce, and thank you," she said in a loud voice. "I assure you, I will do all I can to help you –you deserve it."

But before she left, Mystique paused. "I have that ridiculous lighter, by the way," she said in her normal voice. "You'll get it back once you're free."

And with an arguably friendly smile to John, Mystique sauntered out the door and was gone.

John was left standing in the room, the anger exhausted from his body as he collapsed back onto the bed, daring to hope that maybe –just maybe –things may just work out.

* * *

_Best selling Australian author and journalist John Allerdyce will be embarking on a U.S. book tour, his first return to the United States since the court decision granting him freedom six years ago. Allerdyce had fought at the side of Magneto, previously the leader of the Brotherhood of Mutants, during his teen years, calling himself "Pyro," at large and considered a great threat to national security. _

_After the well publicized Alcatraz Incident, Allerdyce had been taken into custody and condemned to a life sentence of solitary confinement. However, when he had been in Australia, donating a liver to his ailing father, he saved both his estranged parents and then-Senator Kelly from a fire. After much lobbying on Kelly's part, and on the argument of being a minor and possessing a willingness to change, Allerdyce was released from prison time, his only remaining burden being a lifelong parole. He chose to return to his native Australia after his release, and has since made great breakthroughs for equality between mutants and humans, writing many award-winning articles and editorials for both Australian and U.S. press. More recently, he's begun to write several fictional novels, the latest of which he is now promoting. _

_His first book signing will be on –_

Bobby folded the newspaper carefully, still slightly dazed from seeing a now brown-haired John on the cover of the "Entertainment and the Arts" section. He hadn't heard from John since guarding him at the hospital, but it's not like Bobby had exactly looked him up either, though there were a couple of times when he had been tempted to at least try.

He had to admit, he was impressed. When the current Secretary of Defense had appeared out of nowhere, happening to be trapped in John's parent's room, the X-Men had known immediately that the whole thing was a set up. Storm had wanted to expose John and Mystique's plot, afraid that they would resume their extreme ways, but Bobby, Rogue, and –surprisingly– Logan had argued against her. And when Senator Kelly had showed up wanting to pay his gratitude to John, Bobby had let him in without a word.

Being in attendance at John's appeal had been a difficult affair. Watching Mystique and their very expensive lawyer mount their defense had made him wonder if Storm had been right, if the world was better off leaving John locked up, unable to hurt anyone. But that one moment, when John had stared blankly at the raging flames, lost in himself, had kept on coming back to Bobby. He had been just as surprised as Bobby; perhaps they had some sort of plan arranged –prison records stated that Raven Darkholme had visited John before the surgery– but it certainty hadn't been that.

And now, reading John's articles, writing that had attacked anti-mutantism better than throwing flames ever did, Bobby had never been happier about being right. Giving John a second chance, something he'd never thought possible before, had actually benefited the mutant cause. People really connected with his writing, and it had swayed many previous anti-mutant protestors to see their side of things, or at least to give people different than them a chance.

"What's wrong, Bobby?"

He turned around and smiled at Rogue, who sat down easily next to him. God, he always seemed to be grinning lately; she had that effect on him. Over the past six years, they had dated on and off, "trying" to date new people but always found their way back to each other anyway. Recently, they've been talking about getting married, something that both scared and excited him.

"John's back."

Rogue's eyes widened. "Now?" she asked, stunned. "After being gone for –what– six years?"

He nodded. "Yeah, apparently he's on a book tour –for his new book. He writes books now. Books. John. He's always acted like he hated reading, but I guess he'd been pretending."

"No, he'd read the English books –sometimes. It was everything else that he didn't read." Rogue pointed out. "I think your memory's going bad."

"My memory is just fine," Bobby grumbled. "But it's not like I paid attention to that stuff."

"Think he'll come here?"

Bobby shrugged. "Maybe, without calling first, just to be an ass. But I don't know. He hated –_hates_– awkward silences. Might not just because it'd be too weird."

Rogue fiddled with her white gloves, unsure if she should propose this or not. "We should go see him, at the book tour."

"Are you sure?" God, that would be uncomfortable. It would rank up on his list of the most awkward experiences of his life, and that included accidentally walking in on Logan in the showers. He had been shocked that he'd made it out of _that _incident with all his limbs intact.

But before Rogue could respond, one of their students came bounding up behind them.

"Bobby, Rogue!" she said breathlessly, waving a book in her hands. Though it was probably strange for their students to refer to them by first name, both Bobby and Rogue had insisted that they preferred not to be called "Mr. Drake" or "Ms. D'Ancanto."

"What is it, Betsy?" Rogue asked, concerned about the frantic look in her eyes.

"Laura's sick again; she's puking all over the bathroom."

Rogue sighed. "I thought she should know not to eat tuna by now. C'mon, let's go."

But before Betsy lead the way, she shoved her book in Bobby's hands. "Can you watch over this, please?" she asked.

"Why? Just put it down somewhere," Bobby responded.

"It's a birthday present _and _it was fifteen dollars," Betsy argued, biting her lip irritably. "Please Mr. Drake?"

"Okay, okay, just don't call me that," Bobby muttered, earning a smile from Betsy as she and Rogue went to help her sick friend.

Shaking his head about the ridiculous ways of girls, Bobby read the front cover of the book, gaping slightly as he read the author's name –over and over and over again. Unable to believe that this was _really _what he was seeing, and becoming more amused with each word of the summary on the back, Bobby was unable to resist laughing at the sheer unexpectedness of the book's subject, uncharacteristic of its author.

Man, this completely made his day.

_Ring. _Still chuckling, Bobby rose to answer the door, book in hand. As he opened the door and faced the familiar visitor standing there, it was all he could do not to drop Betsy's book. He didn't believe in coincidences, but looking back and forth from the book to the person, he knew that this had to be one of them.

"Hey Bobby," John said. His eyes, much calmer than they'd been when Bobby had last seen him, shifted to the book in Bobby's hands. John smiled. "You actually read, Iceballs?"

It was such an asshole comment to make, but that was John. Even when he was probably expecting resentment and rejection, he always had to have the last word. But in a way, that was almost comforting, because it meant that they were all different, but the same. The insecure, complicated teenagers they'd been had transformed into slightly more confident, still complicated adults. And that was okay. Because they were here, where it had started and ended, with a chance of making things right.

John didn't regret his decision, Bobby knew that, but there was a part of him that had to believe that he'd gotten caught up in the radicalism of everything, that he'd been swept away on a rush, the high of power, and came crashing down. They were opposites, but had a surprising amount of similarities, which they'd quickly discovered when Bobby had been assigned a new roommate all those years ago.

They were fighting the same fight –they always have been. But now, John's methods were something Bobby could deal with, something that wasn't so hateful, spiteful, and bitter to swallow. He'd learned, and grown up. They all have.

Bobby smiled and stepped back. "Come on," he said, gesturing towards the hall. "A lot's changed."

He didn't miss the panic that flashed briefly across John's face, as if he knew that things would change once he'd stepped over the threshold. He was scared, but Bobby stayed where he was, hoping that John would realize that they weren't going to try and lock him up again. Trust works both ways.

John stepped in, absorbing his surroundings with what looked suspiciously like nostalgia.

Unable to resist, Bobby made sure he had the last word –at least, for now. He didn't like losing.

"So, John," he said casually, smirking smugly. "What kind of sissy writes romance novels?"


End file.
